We’re just névé trying to harden into firn
by AlienYak
Summary: D1-D3, and beyond. Friendships can be as easily built as destroyed under the pressures of life and hockey… and love. Eventual Charlie/Adam.
1. First times are closer than you think

AN: Hi guys, welcome to _We're just névé trying to harden into firn_ (those are just two terms I thought fit my summary, Wiki them!). Before proceeding, allow me to put forward what you're getting yourselves into by reading past this point.

Put simply, this is an attempt at an epic(ally long) slash story between Charlie Conway and Adam Banks, told from Charlie, Adam, and Jesse's perspectives. When I say epic, I mean _epic_, like 50 chapters (if I ever make it that far) with the timeline spanning from before the first movie to well after the third. Some of the story will be padding out or clarifying how I interpret some of the interactions seen in the movies –between _all _characters, not just my three favourites – while other parts will be completely original. Other planned pairings are Gordon/Casey, Scooter/Julie, Terry/Tammy, and probably Connie/Guy (because we all know Connie tops in that relationship).

This is pretty much the type of story I love to read. Hopefully, some of you will enjoy this as much as I do (and might even find a little time to throw a review :P). Enjoy.

**Prologue: First times are closer than you think**

Contrary to popular belief, and what his own memory told (or more accurately, _didn't_ tell) him, the first time Adam saw Charlie Conway wasn't the District Five vs. Hawks game, wasn't when he'd slammed the boy into the boards for having the audacity to break through the Hawks' defence.

There was another day, a year earlier. His father had taken him to get his skates sharpened by a kindly old Scandinavian man named Hans, whose skate shop supplied most of the hockey teams –peewees up to pros– in the area. He'd opted to stay in the shop rather than brave the cold to accompany his father on an errand, sitting silently as he watched sparks fly off his blades in a steady spray of gold.

"These are well-worn skates," Hans had commented. "You must love the ice very much."

Adam nodded shyly.

"But you mostly skate indoors?"

"You can tell?" Adam asked, sitting up a little with surprise. His eyes wide as he stared at Hans, who just chuckled in reply. "I don't like the cold," Adam admitted, fiddling with the scarf he hadn't taken off when coming inside. He hadn't shed his coat either.

"Warmth does not come from heating and clothes, young man," Hans told him, touching a hand to his heart, and set the skates before Adam. "It comes from here. All done. Why don't you try them out?"

"But I haven't paid–" Adam tried a last-ditch protest, until Hans gave him a gentle push towards the door.

"There're more ways to pay than just with money. Go on."

So he'd taken steps that shivered with cold onto the pond outside, Hans watching him from the door of the shop. The ice was harder, more slippery than that of the indoor rink, and even with his newly sharpened skates Adam found himself working hard to keep moving. His eyes squinted through the blue-black darkness to watch for inconsistencies in the ice that were sometimes covered by drifts of snow, and he nearly tripped several times, fighting to keep his balance. It only made him more determined to conquer this strange new stage.

Before he knew it, he was warming up, head to toe. Before he knew it, he was _flying_.

"Adam!" his father's voice called; he looked in the shop's direction and spots his father, a large, dark shape standing next to Hans, waving him in. He skates back reluctantly until he stands before his father, breath puffing out in clouds of heat.

"I see that you've tested them already," his father observed, grinning. "How do they feel?"

Adam smiled and turned to Hans. "Thank you."

"The pond is solid until early March," Hans told him. "Feel free to come back anytime."

"I will," Adam promised, and followed his father to the car.

It's not until he's sitting in the front seat, with the heater blasting dry winds over his face and his feet back in boots that Adam sneezed, the contrast re-alerting him to the cold. His father opened the glove box to pass him a packet of tissues; when Adam sneezed a second time, he slowed the car down.

"How about we get a little evening snack?" he suggested. "Maybe some cocoa?"

The promise of hot chocolate had Adam nodding in agreement.

They drove into unfamiliar streets, cruising to hunt for signs of life. This late, the only place that appeared to still be open was a dingy little place with Mickey's Dining Car written in peeling paint over the door. Quite different from the cafés and restaurants they usually went to but Adam, scuttling across the snow towards relative warmth as his father parked the car, didn't really care.

A bell tinkled as he trotted through the door, breathing in the smells of deep fryers and coffee. He took the first available seat he saw, eyes so busy browsing the chalkboard that served as a menu he didn't notice the boy barely staying awake next to him until a blast of cold wind from the door startled him awake. And told Adam why his seat had been empty.

The boy shook his head vigorously, mumbling "Crap" under his breath as he bent over a small stack of papers. Curious, Adam glanced over at the page: decimals and fractions stared back. He watched the boy painstakingly write the working out for dividing 3.6 by 100, then, unable to help himself, remarked, "You can just move the decimal point two points to the right, you know."

His eyes were back on the menu the moment he realised he'd spoken; he heard the scratch of pencil on paper pause, and looked over when it didn't resume. A pair of brown eyes were sizing him up, staring a little. Adam tried not to colour under the scrutiny, probably with limited success.

He was saved from having to comment when a woman –late twenties to early thirties, pretty with brilliant red hair– came over with a cheerful smile. "What can I get you?"

"Cocoa, please," he answered politely, with another glance at the menu board. "Serve of fries, no sauce. Um…"

"Coffee, black, no sugar, to go," added his father, walking briskly through the door. He slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter beside Adam, and said to him apologetically, "I need to make a call, so I'll be in the car."

Briefly Adam considered joining him –it would get him away from having to talk– but the prospect of trying to eat and drink with only two hands didn't appeal. "Okay."

His father left with the coffee and change first, leaving him to wait for his food. He dared a glance back at the boy's paper, to find that he'd finished the previous page and was now converting fractions to decimals, and vice versa. Catching him out, the boy looked up and offered a smile. "You'd think they'd _tell_ you about useful shortcuts, huh?"

It struck Adam that the pretty woman from before was the boy's mother. They had the same smile.

"You're… not from around here, are you?" the boy remarked after a moment. Adam shrugged.

"I live up near the lake."

"You must be rich then," was the wistful supposition. "It looks like a nice area."

"Well, you can't go near the lake in spring, but otherwise it's good." Seeing the perplexed expression on the boy's face, he explained, "Flies."

The boy started to laugh, and was distracted when the woman brought over Adam's order, setting them down before him. His hands instantly sought the warmth of the mug –thank god, not one of those paper cups he couldn't drink from without spilling– even as he stared at the pile of fried potato before him; _this_ was one serve? There was no way he could eat all that.

Catching sight of the boy trying too hard not to show interest in the plate, he slid it to halfway between them. "I can't eat all that," he prompted when the boy hesitated.

Grinning, the boy reached for the ketchup bottle. "Mind if I…?"

"As long as you keep it to your half."

Unfortunately that didn't happen as the boy accidentally squirted ketchup over the length of the plate, and smeared some onto his homework too. He'd left enough chips unmarred for Adam to be amused, not irritated, as he watched the boy swear, curly head bent as he tried to fix his homework (and inevitably made it worse).

He gave up eventually and shoved the papers aside. "So if you live up by the lake, what're you doing down here?"

"Helping maths idiots with their homework," Adam quipped without thinking; lucky for him the boy didn't take offence, though he still explained, "My dad owns an accounting firm, so I can do maths. Give me an English essay and I'm screwed though."

"Rich boy," the boy chortled through a mouthful of food.

"I was actually getting my skates sharpened. I want to make the hockey team next year, so I've been practicing everyday."

"You can _skate_?"

"You can't?" Adam failed to keep the shock from his voice, and felt bad when the boy made a face.

"Can't afford to go to the rink. And my mum won't let me go out on the pond. She doesn't think it's safe."

"It's safe," Adam assured with the authority of someone who'd just survived a half hour on it. "You should practice on it. Honestly, living here without learning to skate–"

"None of my friends really know how either. And my family only moved here a month ago." The boy paused, thoughtful. "Your parents still together?"

"Yeah," Adam replied, surprised by the question.

The boy nodded, and in a reverie, didn't say another word.

Glancing at the clock, Adam winced at how late it was, and hurriedly finished his hot chocolate, leaving the rest of the chips behind. As he was leaving, he heard the boy ask, "I'll see you around, maybe?"

Adam thought of skating on the pond again. "Sure."

He joined his father in the car, thoughts elsewhere as the engine started and the car rolled back onto the road. "Dad," he heard himself ask after a moment. "Rink time… it's not that expensive, is it?"

His father looked slightly confused, then said reassuringly, "If you make the team next year, it'll all be worth it."

He realised his father had misinterpreted what he meant and his motive for the question, but decided to let it go for the moment. His father was head of an accounting firm; the boy's mother worked in a diner. If his father's job…

"Oh," he muttered, belatedly realising why the boy would be doing homework in a chilly diner at night, not at home. Why he'd asked if Adam's parents were still together.

He took the scarf off his neck.

"Now there's a rare sight," his father observed, bemused. "Finally getting used to Minnesota?"

Adam grinned at the joke, feeling suitably warm. "I guess so."

**********

Sitting beside his mother outside the reception of his new school, Charlie hunched further into his jacket and shivered. Minnesota was a whole other world from sunny California, beautiful in its own way but very, _very_ cold.

He tried not to notice his mother twisting her hands anxiously. She'd been this way since suggesting the move back to what had been her home during her middle school years, nerves and dread radiating from her when she thought of the reception she might get from people who actually remembered her…. if there was anyone left that did. But there had been anticipation too, a hope he hadn't seen much of since they'd left his father behind; he has one fuzzy memory of her looking carefree and relaxed, without the crease in her forehead as she laughed with his dad.

As much as he'd miss his friends he hadn't been able to argue with his own mother's happiness. Even if it meant giving up that tiny, buried hope he'd harboured, that maybe one day his dad might come looking for them, and everything might be alright.

He shivered at another blast of cold autumn when the door leading in opened and didn't shut all the way. A moment later he felt his mother's soft white scarf, warm with body heat and sweet with perfume, winding gently around his neck. He inhaled the scent, and grinned up at his mum disarmingly. "I'm fine mum. You wear it."

Her face –sad yet happy, so that tears stood in her eyes when she smiled– set heartache burning in his chest when she hugged him with one arm. "You'll love it here, you'll see," she whispered fiercely into his hair. "I just know you will."

He couldn't find anything to say, swamped in love and embarrassment, the latter doubling when the receptionist cleared her throat.

"Mrs. Conway, Principal Harper will see you now."

He felt rather than saw his mother tense briefly at the name; she'd reverted back to her maiden name, Jameson, after the divorce papers were settled, but left him with his father's name. She drew back, adjusting the backwards cap on his head as they stood. "I get my first paycheque from Mickey's on Friday," she tells him as they follow the receptionist to the Principal's office. "And as soon as we do, we're going to get you a proper coat, young man, and a scarf of your own."

"Do I get to choose?"

She smiled. "I think you're old enough to take responsibility for your own appearance now."

A small heater sputters crankily in the office, filling it with faint odours of wet wool and gasoline leak. After a few minutes in there, he began tuning out parts of the conversation between his mother and the principal in favour of wondering if the heater was merely mirroring the latter's disposition. Principal Harper certainly possessed a face sour enough to warp metal, her bushy brows twitching when she spoke in a deep, booming voice as she addressed the school's code of conduct to him.

Charlie did his best to curb the grin on his face, fingers already itching to cause havoc. He and Principal Harper were going to get along _just_ fine.

Having dealt with the boring administration work, Harper got out of her chair; a moment later, having realised what the three of them were about to do, Charlie cringed. School tour… Like he wouldn't have enough fun being the new kid in his class, now the whole _school_ had to know?

At the earliest opportunity, Charlie 'accidentally' turned a wrong corner and slunk off. He'd discovered long ago that 'lost' was the best excuse a ten-year-old could have.

Out of sight of his mother and Harper, he was faced with a dilemma. He wasn't particularly keen on waiting in the car, and didn't have his bearings on the city enough yet to just wander off. That would change, now. With the keenly honed experience of someone who changed schools regularly (as well as the instincts of a serial prankster), he started a trek through the building, keeping low and an ear out for other signs of life. Twice he was almost caught, by a teacher exiting her classroom and a girl wandering down the hall, clutching a paper slip and looking like the Wicked Witch of the West (or just like she was going to be sick).

An empty science classroom caught his attention, and he slipped in to get a better look at the jars of preserves lining one window shelf. Preserved brains, kidneys –all too small to be human, sadly– and a jar of whole rat, floating creepily… He stared at the last with morbid fascination until voices outside sent him scuttling under a desk to hide.

To his dismay, a trio of boys entered the classroom, eyes looking around beadily to ascertain that no one else was there; somehow, just by holding his breath and praying, Charlie managed to escape their notice. He watched, and then tried not to laugh as the smallest of the three –trying to look tough in a leather jacket and backwards cap– reached into the jar with the rat and pulled it out, replacing it with a stuffed rat the boy with glasses and curly red hair handed to him.

The third boy, a rotund guy who shuffled in a long coat rather than walked, abandoned his post at the door, giving Charlie an opportunity to sneak out. The muffled giggling in the room meant he didn't have to be too quiet as he crawled on his elbows and knees. The door drew closer, and he got to his feet with a chair for aid–

He heard a brief screech of wood on wood when he put too much weight on the chair's back too fast. Its legs caught on the desk's, the desk crashed into the one over with a spill of coloured pencils and books, and before he knows it he'd managed to tangle himself in amongst the pile of semi-splintered wood. "Ow," he muttered weakly, rubbing the back of his bruised head as he sat up.

The three boys were staring at him with a potent mix of surprise, awe, and plain mirth.

"Hi," he greeted, lifting a hand and doing his best to appear nonchalant to his state. "Charlie Conway. I'm starting here Monday."

Someone snorted, and that was all it took for the peals of laughter to start.

"Charlie _Spaz_way, more like," the short boy sniggered, being the first to recover. He took Charlie's hand and pulled him up, surprisingly strong despite his size. "Peter Mark. That's Averman," he pointed to the boy with the glasses, "and Karp. Their first names are both Dave, so we just use surnames to save confusion."

"I suggested we duke it out for the right to use the name," cut in Averman. "But I'm willing to sacrifice my individual identity if I get to call the Karp-meister a fish for the rest of his life."

"Hey Karp, Averman said you were a fishy," Peter hollered at Karp, who'd been distracted by watching the toy rat start to sink.

Averman paled, freckles standing out when Karp turned, cracked his knuckles and growled, "What was that, Averman?"

Before Karp could deliver a blow, adult voices right outside the classroom had the four boys panicking as they tried to find a place to hide. Under the desks was out with the overturned desks drawing attention to the ground. The supplies closet wouldn't fit all of them (and was locked anyway), and there were no doors leading out. Desperate, they lined up along the wall next to the door, hoping it wouldn't open wide enough to hit them.

"You know," Charlie whispered, unable to help himself despite the situation, "you should have gotten one of those rubber mice that squeak when you squeeze them."

Averman's giggle turned strangled when the lock clicked forebodingly.

Before the door could open, a voice yelled, "Principal Harper! Principal Harper, come quickly! There's a riot in one of the classrooms!"

"Which one?" demanded the booming voice of their principal.

"Room 216. One of the students punched Mr. Walker!" At that, both adults broke into a run, their footsteps pounding down the corridor.

As soon as they could be sure the adults were gone, Averman ventured, "Aren't you supposed to be in maths right now, Karp? Any idea who it is?"

Karp nodded, standing, and the others followed suit. "Ten bucks that it's Jesse Hall. Nobody else's got the balls to hit a teacher."

"Jesse Hall?"

"What about that Fulton guy?" Averman was asking Karp. "Have you _seen_ the size of him?"

"Have you ever seen him fight? If it's not Fulton, pay up."

"No way!"

"Guy in our year level," Peter answered Charlie's inquiry. "He's pretty hot-tempered, and he's got a mean right hook to match. Try not to do anything stupid to set him off, Spazway."

Charlie rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, then asked, "Won't he get in trouble for punching a teacher?"

"Walker had it coming," Karp spat, peering out the door to check that the coast was clear. "He's been picking on Jesse's brother Terry ever since school started. Let's go."

They trotted out of the building into the courtyard, from which Charlie could see his mum waving from the car. Turning to the other boys, he said apologetically, "I have to go now."

"Sure. We'll see you on Monday," Peter replied, then grinned. "Hope you're in our science class, we've got a little surprise prepared."

Charlie grinned back, and waved as the other three prepared to sneak back into class.

"Looks like you've made some friends," his mother commented with a smile as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Yeah," he confirmed absently; his mind was still on the boy who would punch a teacher for his brother. He was _impressed_, not scared; despite Peter's warning, teasing though it'd been, he actually couldn't wait to meet the guy. He couldn't wait for Monday.

That was the first time he heard the name Jesse Hall. He already knew it wouldn't be the last.

**********

"Bro, you ready yet?"

"Nah, man. You head out first."

His brother shrugged and stepped out on the ice, skating slowly across the pond's surface to where the rest of their friends had gathered. The new kid who'd just moved from Cali –Charlie Conway– had joined them for the first time, his face flushed with excitement as Connie imparted the basics of skating to him.

Jesse watched their progress for a few moments, holding his breath as Conway slid one step, then two– And went sprawling, to the others' laughter. With a snort, Jesse returned his attention to his skates, gloved fingers slowed by the cold and his own thoughts as he methodically pulled each section of the laces tight.

He had on the more beaten set of secondhand skates his father had taken them to buy a few months prior, too big on his feet even with three pairs of holey socks since they were "still shootin' like weeds". His brother had the better pair with the sharper blades, but Terry was the one who'd wanted to join the District 5 hockey team next year in the first place and coerced him into coming along, at least to help him figure out how to skate.

Jesse finished with his second shoe and took a tentative step onto the pond, and fell back on the bench for support. Good job he was doing too, he thought sarcastically, getting up for round two.

"Hey Jesse." Connie wobbled up to him, trailed by a love-struck Guy Germaine who slipped onto his butt to avoid bumping into her. Jesse didn't bother to hide his snickers; he'd have held out against this whole hockey madness if his best friend hadn't defected to chase after a _girl_, even one as pretty as Connie Moreau.

"How's the new kid?" he asked her, trying a tentative circle around the bench.

"Alright, mostly," she replied, helping Guy to his feet and seemingly not noticing the bright smile he flashed her. "But he gets distracted easily, and then he falls."

"He's a hockey nut," Guy added helpfully, brushing ice off his clothes. "I heard that he's got the autograph of every ice-hockey player in California, and he's halfway through getting the North Stars' right now."

Jesse eyed his friend sceptically; Guy had a talent for reporting rumours as facts that was on par with his own. Still, the first piece of information piqued his interest a little. As far as he knew, his brother was the only one to take the whole hockey thing somewhat seriously, going so far as to tape games to analyse and covering his half of their room with team posters, while the rest of their friends were only in it to pass the time. It would be good –if only to get his brother off his back– for there to be someone to share Terry's obsession with him.

Seeing that Jesse was still reluctant to leave the bench, Connie and Guy skated off again to rejoin the 'game' occurring on the pond's other side. Jesse watched its progress for a few minutes, snorting at what he saw. Averman seemed more interested in playing commentator on the sidelines (at least he could stay on his feet for more than ten seconds that way) and Karp spent more time sliding on his belly than his feet. The sight of Peter trying to manoeuvre a stick taller than he was had him sniggering, as much in despair as amusement. _This_ was the team they were going to be playing on next year?

Shaking his head, Jesse picked up the battered stick lying on the bench and skated after Connie and Guy, determined to forget his negative thoughts if only for the afternoon.

As the day grew darker, their group slowly decreased in size. Averman was the first to leave, picked up by his parents to attend some family dinner event. Next, Peter's older brother showed up to demand they go home ("So he can go out with his new _girlfriend_," Peter had stage-whispered with a roll of his eyes) and ended up giving Karp a ride as well. Guy walked Connie home as the sun began to set, careful not to say as much lest she deck him for treating her like a girl, though she was happy to let him carry her bag for her.

That left Jesse alone with the two hockey freaks, who were still duelling each other vigorously for the puck, unfazed by the two hours' they'd been out or how exhaustion and impending darkness were making them even worse skaters than before.

Still, Jesse couldn't begrudge them their passion for the sport, even if he didn't quite share it.

"We should get some kind of goal set up," he mused aloud when his brother and Conway were taking a breather on the ice. The puck had slid over to him; Jesse hit it back to Terry, hardly noticing when the puck skidded to a perfect stop before his brother. "That way you clowns can actually keep score."

"What's the use, we got no goalie," huffed Terry, standing. He made the mistake of offering Conway a hand up, and was promptly pulled back down.

Conway apologised profusely (though not without his own share of amusement) before saying, "Where I lived, they used to use trash cans for goals. We don't need goalies for those."

"You clearly haven't seen what's _in_ our trash cans," Jesse snorted, glancing at Terry for support. "Who'd wanna dig pucks out of those?"

Momentarily lost in thought, Terry nodded before crowing, "Hey, wasn't Mrs. Fields trying to get Dad to help throw out an old soccer goal or something?"

"Mrs. Fields?"

"This crazy old bat that lives a few streets over from us," Jesse spat; he had strong feelings about the woman, who clearly though they were still living in the Confederacy or some other time when it was still acceptable to use the words 'slave' and 'nigger'. "Why's she throwing it out again?"

"The net broke or something," Terry shrugged, skating to the pond's edge to inspect it. "If we put the goal here–"

"Nah," interrupted Conway, pointing to a different part of the ice. "It'll be more like a real rink if it's on that side…"

Regretting his comment (they really _would_ be out all night now) Jesse skated back to the bench. His feet were starting to kill him.

He's fitting his feet back into his sneakers, grimacing as his toes curl at the blast of cold coming through the split between sole and upper, when a dark shape and movement catches the corner of his eye. One glance at his brother and Conway tell him they're too engrossed to have noticed.

"Who's there?" Jesse demanded sharply, protectiveness and anger rising in him to quell the fear of the unknown. Worst case scenarios –mugger, kidnapper, axe murderer– flitted through his mind as he marched towards the shape, only to fizzle into relief when he spotted a boy his own age stepping back hesitantly at his approach.

He took in the boy's appearance, and scowled. This was no kid from his 'hood, with his thick, well-made coat and clothes and rollerblades on his feet. His hair could only be blond, lighter even than Guy's and much better groomed; his skin was as pale and translucent as the ice beneath their feet. In one hand was a hockey stick that would have Terry in fits of envy, and the other carried a gym bag heavy with gear.

"You lost, rich boy?" Jesse asked with a sneer.

He received a shrug. "No. I just came here to play hockey."

"With who?" Before the boy could answer, Jesse continued, "Your friends are back in Prepsville, that way. Why don't you go back to where you belong?"

Something flashed through the boy's eyes at that, though his voice was cool as he pointed out, "This is a free country. I can come here if I wish."

"You want to play hockey? Fine," Jesse snapped. "I bet you're on one of them cake-eater teams that have more money than talent. Just you wait, next year you're going _down_."

A hint of a smirk touched the boy's face as he regarded Jesse, and he simply said, "Alright. You're on."

The words riled Jesse up, but before he could act on them with a fist of poor judgement the boy turned and glided off, taking the hint. Jesse watched until he was well out of sight, bitterness rising in his chest and throat; of _course_ the guy could skate gracefully, effortlessly, as well as having money. Some people just had to have it all.

He got home that night and asked his father about professional hockey on a whim over the dinner table, much to his brother's surprise. Jesse still wasn't that interested in hockey overall, and he hadn't proven thus far to be any hand at it, but he was astounded when he heard how far sport could take a person, provided they were talented and perseverant enough. It was something he tucked into the corner of his mind, something he didn't forget even as the District 5 peewee hockey team racked up their ninth consecutive loss.

Something he remembered even when he had forgotten that first time he'd spoken to Adam Banks.

**********


	2. When the very best are the very worst

AN: Not much to say, just a thanks to the wonderful people who reviewed, your comments really make my day! For my anonymous reviewers, I've got replies posted at the end of this chapter. If you guys want more timely replies though, please leave me an email address.

This fic is written in British English, and with only a shallow, basic understanding of a) US society and b) ice hockey. Comments and concrit both welcome, and please enjoy! ^_^

**Chapter 01: When the very best are the very worst as well**

The Hawks were legendary in peewees as the state's long-running best team, and also as the state's biggest collection of assholes. They were all recruited from rich families who could afford expensive equipment, extra sessions in indoor rinks, and being driven by their fathers to practices and games in polished, well-maintained cars.

For Charlie, the last was a double point of envy.

But watching the Hawks sail around their home rink in neat formation, it's the skill he's most jealous of, even if they do look ridiculous in their neat lines of four or five as they practised drills, a bunch of kids playing at being adult. They were a sleek team who moved fast, passed fast, and all of it with precision. Thinking of his own plays, precise was the last word he could use in the description.

"Stupid cake-eaters," muttered Jesse, gripping his hockey stick in a way that suggested he was about to play baseball with someone's head. The rest of the team were dragging Karp back into the box to prevent him going after two of the Hawks who'd skated up and away with some silly comment. Charlie shook his head at yet another neatly executed goal, not disagreeing.

"They're good."

"We'd be just as good if we had all that fancy-ass equipment."

"Speak for yourself," cut in Peter, sniggering. "Spazway couldn't hit a goal if they put the puck _and _net in his hands."

"I didn't see _you_ do any better," retorted Jesse, looking ready to pummel the shorter boy. He'd been in a bad mood all morning. Sensing the danger, Peter quickly turned to an easier target to bait. Already riled up, Karp responded with a shove that sent Peter sprawling over the bench, still spouting comments, and the rest of the team's attention turned to the brewing fight.

In the chaos, Charlie moved to sit next to Jesse. His friend's eyes were narrowed at the Hawks' number 9, one of the smaller players on the team, effortlessly moving the puck around his teammates. Letting out an impressed whistle when the guy –Banks, he read off the jersey– feinted around the Hawks' goalie to pop the puck in, Charlie asked, "Can you imagine Goldberg trying to stop that?"

Jesse sighed irritably. "I'm serious, Charlie. You can't buy _talent_ with money."

"I'd have started saving up if you could," he joked. Seeing that Jesse was still scowling, he gave his friend a light punch in the arm. "Come on. Let's just have some fun."

"It'd be more fun if we could win," Jesse grumbled, though the frown left his face as he started to look around the stands. "Hey, who's Coach talking to?"

"That's the Hawks' coach," Guy told them, having heard the question. "He's been their coach for like the past 30 years or something. All the flags up here were won by teams he trained."

Jesse snorts. "Yeah, but they still lost one. See?"

"You want to put another yellow one up there?" asked Charlie, grinning.

"We'll have to win a game first," pointed out Connie. Before anyone can reply to that, a sharp whistle drew the Hawks in to their bench; they spotted Bombay weaving through the mass of black jerseys, his expression tight and drawn. Nothing like the sarcastic but still somewhat cheerful man they'd met the day before.

The Hawks chant started as Bombay reached them, their mantra of "WIN! WIN! WIN! WIN!" quickly infecting the crowd of friends and relatives crammed in the Hawks stands into joining in. By contrast, the District 5 stand was mostly empty; some of their parents had to work weekends, others just didn't care. Charlie was glad his mum was there, seated next to Mr. Hall, though he did feel a little sorry for them having to witness the match.

"Yeah, we're all fired up," sighed Bombay after his attempt to get the team to copy the Hawks' chant fell flat. "Averman, Karp, Moreau, you're starting on the bench. Germaine, centre, Jesse Hall left wing, Terry, right. Mark left defence, Conway right defence. Any questions?"

The team shook their heads, a little surprised that Bombay had learnt their names. That was more than their previous coach had managed to do.

"Coach," Goldberg piped up. "Any chance I can sit out today? I have the most terrible–"

"You'll be fine," Bombay drawled, pushing Greg onto the ice, where he promptly fell. The rest of the team snickered, and the elected starters stepped over him to get onto the ice. As punishment for trying to skip his goaltending duties, they decided to copy the drill the Hawks were doing –lining up to tap their goalie's shins– and Charlie made sure to hit Goldberg a few extra times before they took their positions. From across the rink, Charlie eyed Jesse a little nervously as his friend stared down the Hawks' number 9; Bombay wasn't the only one in a difficult mood.

The whistle blew, and they heard the puck slide right before Guy hit the ice. By the time they realised number 9 had it, he was already skating to the side. Jesse fell, followed by Peter as they tried to stop him. Charlie lunged… and missed completely. The siren informed him that the Hawks had scored, and the scoreboard confirmed that. Ten seconds, he thought as he climbed to his feet. How many ten seconds were there in a three period match?

They were down 5-0 halfway through the first period; it seemed that the Hawks took much longer to score when their number 9 wasn't on the field, and they changed lines after every point. Guy, Terry and Peter exchanged places with their bench; he and Jesse had no one to switch with, though they were both breathing hard. The change proved ineffectual, as just over a minute later, he watched from the floor as number 9 led Goldberg out of the net, skating smoothly around the back to score another goal and make it 8-0.

God, but he wished he might one day skate like that.

Bombay called a timeout, for which Charlie's lungs and legs were both grateful. He could hear the tones of frustration in their coach's voice, though he was having trouble processing the words. He tuned out thinking about the plays he'd seen, most from quite close up. What was so different with his own technique–

"Hey Charlie," Guy shook him back to the present. "Let's go."

"R-right."

Goldberg managed to stop a shot from the Hawks' number 7, albeit with his head and entirely by accident. The puck slid back towards the centre and Charlie chased after it, struck by a sudden burst of inspiration as he mimicked the way the Hawks skated. Steady, unrushed strokes of the feet, pushing the puck forward carefully… He glanced up to find himself just an unprecedented few metres in front of the Hawk's goalie. Astounded that he'd made it this far, he promptly forgot what he'd observed, lifted the stick high and hurriedly swung.

His feet slid out form under him as he missed the puck and overbalanced, losing his helmet along the way. Luckily he crashed into the wall on his side, injuring his pride, but not a lot else. He climbed to his feet with a frustrated growl. So close, he'd been _so_ close–

A weight slammed him into the boards from behind, the flat of the hockey stick hard across his shoulders. Wind whooshed from his lungs and he fell back, stunned. A loud cheer of "Way to play it, Banks!" let him know who it was; he caught a glimpse of intense blue eyes in number 9's face before the guy skated away. He lay there, trying to get his breath back, until he heard his mother's voice calling out.

"You okay, Charlie?" Jesse leant over him, frowning. "That was some check."

"It's not as bad as it looked," he answered as he got up, and was surprised to find it was true. So his back was a little numb from the ice, and he still wheezed a bit, but overall it had been a pretty restrained check compared to some of the ones he'd copped from the other Hawks' players. Like that number 7 goon. "Honest, I'm fine. I'll just go sit on the bench for a bit."

Jesse shook his head and looked back at where their starting positions were, thirty metres of ice in between. Without the slightest sarcasm, he said, "Talent, Charlie."

"So go get the next one in."

Jesse saluted him and skated off.

"Nice fan Charlie. Keep swinging, maybe you'll give them a cold."

Charlie made a face as he sat on the bench, glad that it was Averman replacing him, not Connie; he wouldn't have to listen to a long detailed playback of his check, and she could make Karp keep his mouth shut. His eyes searched through the Hawks' bench and the field until he found what he was looking for. Number 9 was still on the field, already focused on the next play. Charlie noted the stance, his grip on the stick, the reaction to the whistle and puck as he surged in for goal number five.

"Say the word Charlie," Connie remarked, her fist hitting her other hand when he looked at her. "We'll get that guy back for what he did."

He realised that she'd noticed his staring –really, she'd have to be blind not to– and misunderstood his intent. For a moment, Charlie contemplated correcting her, but he didn't want Karp or Bombay to shoot him down with a snide remark. Not on this. "If you do that, I'll never live it down. They'll all say I needed protection from a _girl_," he teased instead, pretending to wince when she landed a punch on his shoulder.

"Hmph. See if I offer to help you again." Charlie poked her in the ribs, and she giggled as she poked back.

"Hey, knock it off," Bombay snapped, eyes glaring at the scoreboard; they stopped sheepishly, and Charlie glanced back at the field. Damn, he'd missed seeing the last goal, he thought, disappointment sharp in his chest as he watched number 9 return to the Hawks bench. Oh well. The other Hawks players were pretty good too, he convinced himself. Or at least he tried.

He watched the rest of the period in silence.

**********

By the time the buzz of the final siren sounded, Jesse was wishing he'd never heard of hockey.

No, scratch that. He wished he could go back in time to share a little of his pent-up frustration with the bastard who'd invented the sport. Damn the man. And damn the referees for watching him diligently after his first attempt at inciting a smack-down, against that racist little shit number seven.

"Nice going, Banks. New Hawks' record," he heard the Hawks' coach say, words barely audible over the din that was their own bench tearing each other to pieces.

Jesse just managed to curb his urge to spit on the ground. Damn that guy too. Lousy, show-off, cake-eating–

"Hey, shut up!" roared Bombay, the sound cutting the team off as they argued over who was the worst on field… like it mattered when they all sucked. Disgust echoed clearly through the rink, the looks of pity thrown to them by some of the spectators making Jesse feel sicker than their derision as _Coach_ continued his tirade. "You guys stink. I thought we came here to play hockey!"

"You know, I knew we forgot something," shot back Peter, the comment garnering a laugh from the whole team, Jesse included. The sound seemed almost foreign to his ears, and he realised he hadn't been laughing that much in recent weeks. Not that school, frequent detention with their asshole maths teacher and being thrashed in a match that left him feeling tired and beaten, inside and out, were anything to laugh about in the first place.

His body throbbed with bruises, and he winced. Wondering what the hell he was doing here.

"Oh, you think it's funny? You think losing is funny?"

"Well, not at first, but once you get the hang of it…" explained Averman, apologetically; his tone set off something in Jesse (they were bad, but it wasn't their fault and they shouldn't be sorry for it!) and he found his voice.

"We're the ones out there getting our butts kicked."

"Yeah, it's not like you coach us or anything," chipped in Terry. "At least we tried."

Poor Terry, he thought, watching his brother's face fall as Bombay proceeded to throw everything they'd done wrong in their faces. No matter how many times they lost, his brother hadn't yet lost excitement for playing the game, still approaching each match with a naïve enthusiasm Jesse wanted badly to experience.

And poor Charlie, who had a bad habit of taking a shine to their new coaches and being disappointed in the most horrible way every time.

"Why the hell won't you just listen to me?"

He'd heard enough. "Why the hell should we?" he snarled, a sneer on his face that even Bombay could only look away from. It wasn't right that he had that much anger bottled up in him, enough to give adults pause and make them shrink away, he thought as he stomped away, barely feeling the reassuring pats from his teammates. He skated away, the coach's last words audible to him across the ice.

"I don't care. You wanna lose? Fine. You're the ones who look like idiots out there."

Jesse's slam of the door seemed to punctuate the words.

He was almost fully changed by the time his teammates trooped into the locker room, allowing him to make a quick exit before anyone could grill him. Not that they would; they all thought letting him blow off steam on his own was the way best way to deal with it… and in a way it was. He rarely stayed in a bad mood for long after all, just let the anger keep simmering away underneath. A few deep breaths, and he'd be back to 'normal' again.

So he was surprised and thrown off-balance when he heard the door swing open and Peter step out, hopping as he removed his _Enquirer_ shin-pads. "You okay?" Peter asked.

"Fine, man."

"Don't give me that," Peter snorted, grimacing when his socked feet stepped into a pile of snow someone's skate had left to melt. "You had detention with Walker on Thursday, right? What's that, the fifth time this month?"

"What's it to you anyway?" he demanded, grabbing Peter by the collar to growl the words in his face.

His friend just blinked back, waiting. Staring at him with eyes that were clear and unnervingly patient until he started to reconsider.

He tried to think of a good reason _not_ to tell Peter. The guy was a pain-in-the-ass runt who loved to make mischief, but he was smart, probably the smartest in their group. More than that, he wasn't a happy-go-lucky idiot (though he used the term fondly) like the rest of the team. He viewed the world through glasses only slightly less cynical than Jesse's, and would understand his point of view.

That made the only real reason not to say anything was Jesse's own pride… which was battered beyond salvaging by the match today anyway. He had nothing to lose.

"Bastard gives me all this extra work in class," Jesse muttered, letting go of Peter. "Says I need 'remedial studies' or some crap, when it's all like advanced stuff. Then when I can't finish it all, he gives me detention."

"Well, you did hit him, and get away with just a suspension," pointed out Peter reasonably. "What I don't get is why you don't hit him again."

"Are you nuts? My dad'll kill me if I get expelled." Before Peter could suggest another, more viable route, he explained, "It's like, I dunno, like I'm running away or something if I do that. Like I can't hack a few extra pages of homework, or that it's too hard."

"But it's unfair."

"_Duh_ it is." Jesse let out a deep breath, then grinned, genuinely this time; it felt good to air out his reasoning. "But hey, if I learn this now, I can relax next year."

"Oh I see," snickered Peter, stuffing his 'pads' into his bag. "You want to be a nerd and get a scholarship into some preppy school, is that it?"

"Yeah, and then I'll come visit you when you're flipping burgers for a living," Jesse retorted, shoving Peter and snickering when he toppled backwards onto the ground. Looking up, Jesse saw the rest of the team watching cautiously from the locker room door, and motioned for them to come forward with a roll of his eyes. They surged forward and surrounded him with slaps on the back and chatter and laughter, and he let them sweep him along.

He didn't miss Peter's eyes watching him carefully though, or the sly look that screamed warnings to Jesse as his friend opened his mouth and said, "I don't know about you guys, but I want a distraction from _brooding_ on all this hockey business. Who's free this afternoon?"

"Not me," answered Goldberg ruefully.

"Why?" Connie asked, looking suspicious. Peter snorted.

"I said "guys". Girls aren't invited."

"Hey, that's not–"

"Forget it, Guy, I'm busy this weekend anyway," retorted Connie, hands on her hips. "Let me know when you've stopped hanging out with these _jerks_."

"You pissed off Connie," Guy intoned reproachfully to Peter as she walked off, holding her nose in the air and pretending to ignore the snickering that followed. Without the least show of remorse, Peter clapped him on the shoulder solemnly.

"Trust me, man, you do _not_ want her to see this."

Guy's expression didn't budge from "my puppy died", just took on an element of guilt as well when Peter led them to a box of _Sports Illustrated_ magazines that Karp had found. The team –sans the absent Connie and Goldberg, and Guy, who was hanging back– practically leapt upon them with triumphant crows.

"I don't believe it, who would throw these _away_?"

Jesse flipped through his copy and lifted an eyebrow at the contents. He looked up until he caught Peter's attention and mouthed, "This is your idea of a distraction?"

Peter just grinned impishly, and opened the centrefold. "Hey Guy, it's your _mum_."

A wedgie, Jesse thought vindictively as they grabbed Peter, was the least of what the little brat deserved.

"Hey!"

They spun around at Karp's cry to see three tall figures swooping past them to a stop, one so close to Jesse that he felt the brush of nylon across his nose. Hawks, he saw from the logos on their coats. His earlier negativity rushed back as they started to circle, bringing with it a dull headache that seemed to sap his usual desire to fight. Not that he could really get in a good hit when they were moving fast, as fast as they had on skates. He recognised the one in the middle instantly from his sneer. From his size, the one on the left was probably their number thirty-three; that meant the one on the right was number nine, Banks.

Looking at him, he found blue eyes gazing coolly back. It seemed that his hunch was right; number nine had been targeting Jesse during the game as much as Jesse had been glaring at him.

He snapped out of his brief pacifist phase when number seven and thirty-three tossed Karp into a pile of garbage, surging up with the rest of his friends. Before any real pushing or shoving could occur though, a shadow fell over all of them; moments later, the Hawks were thrown, stunned, on top of Karp, courtesy of one Fulton Reed from their class.

Jesse felt a satisfied smile curl his lips when he saw the flash of pain and fear over number nine's face, and made sure the guy saw it as the trio scrambled back up to their feet and hastily skated away.

"Thanks a lot, man," the group told Fulton, who grunted and walked away, boots thudding against the ground. Collectively, they let out a deep breath when he was out of sight; he may have helped them and been in half of their classes, but he was still an intimidating person to stand in the presence of.

As soon as he was gone, Peter pulled a dazed Karp up to his feet, though he left the fussing over him to the rest of the team. As soon as they'd ascertained that he was okay, Peter smiled broadly and asked, "So, that was fun. What's next?"

A streak of wickedness ran through him as he exchanged a look with Charlie, and they grabbed Peter by the arms and legs, shouting as they swung him, "One, two, three!"

One of the garbage bags decided it had had enough and split open when Peter landed on it, spewing old food all over the boy. Everyone stared at the mess, before they all turned tail and ran as empty cans started to fly at them.

"You guys are dead, you hear me? Dead!"

**********

Honestly, they'd deserved that, Adam thought ruefully as they skated the hell out of that alley, not stopping until Billy and George were winded and even h was breathing hard. They stumbled into a park, arrowing for the nearest bench; Adam just leant his hands on his knees, remaining standing, while his friends sprawled on the bench and groaned.

"That… big gorilla," cursed George, punching his fist into his other hand without getting up. "I'm going to get him good."

"You and what army?" Billy muttered tiredly. "I'm sure as hell not going in for Round 2."

"Wuss," George sneered, receiving a half-hearted hit for the comment and giving one back. He craned his head to look at Adam, who'd straightened and was rubbing his elbow gingerly. "What about you?"

Thinking over his answer, Adam shrugged. "Forget it. You threw one of them into the garbage, they threw us in return. Just call it even."

"_We _threw them? Don't give me that goody two-shoes bull, you're no St. Adam either. You were right there with us."

He shrugged again, not denying what was true or wanting to argue semantics, but not bothering to explain himself either. Let George think he'd just been going along with things or something, it was easier than explaining the bet he'd had with that black kid from District 5, something Hall.

Not that the guy seemed to remember it, he thought, thinking back to the game. He'd gone out of his way to score that first goal so he could gloat a little, knocking the kid's helmet off with some asinine comment as he skated past. To no apparent avail. Oh, he'd noticed the guy try to come after him for a fist fight, and his angry stare following Adam through the match, but there was no recognition in his gaze, no acknowledgement of their little wager.

Maybe that's why he'd gone after that kid who seemed to be good friends with Hall, Conway or whatever. And maybe that was why, despite scoring seven goals and receiving rarer-than-rare praise from Coach Reilly, he'd felt unsatisfied with the team victory. Enough that he'd actually gone along for once with George's dumb idea to hunt out the "District 5 losers" for some post-game fun.

He rubbed his elbow again and winced. Definitely the last time he was doing _that_.

"Oh, leave Adam out of it," Billy grumbled, finally sitting up. "He just wants to focus on hockey, right Adam?"

It wasn't entirely true, but Adam made a non-committal noise he knew would be taken as an affirmative. George rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I need to get home, my dad's got some house party he needs me to be _presentable_ for."

Automatically, they offered empathy in the form of "Ugh, I hate that" and pats on the back, some mutual grumbling about such parties passing their lips before George skated off, yelling over his shoulder about meeting up the next day. Adam and Billy shouted back agreement, then watched in silence as their friend skated out of sight.

"I should probably get started on that history assignment Mrs. Jones set," Billy conceded reluctantly. Digging and counting a handful of bills from his coat pocket, he asked, "Want to get something on the way back? I'll pay today."

Billy had paid for the three of them last time, but Adam had alternated with George the month before when Billy's pocket money had been cut because of his grades. He nodded. "Okay."

They'd skated out of the park's vicinity when he suddenly said, "Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"I–" His intended words seemed to choke in his throat. It would be easier to just keep his mouth shut, let his friends believe what was convenient, but for some reason he wanted to explain himself to Billy. He needed him to know the truth, even if he didn't understand Adam's line of thought. "What you said, about me wanting to focus on hockey…"

"What about it?"

"It's not true." Adam thought over the words once they'd left his mouth, and shook his head. "I mean it's true that I wanna do well with hockey and stuff, but that's not why I don't want to go along with George again."

"O… kay." Billy's brow was furrowed.

"It's not that I'm scared," Adam added quickly, smiling when Billy's expression lightened a little, though his friend still looked confused. "Okay, maybe a tiny bit. I just think it's pointless. We're not proving anything."_ Except that we're jerks, perhaps_.

"Adam–"

"Sorry, forget I said anything." They reached the café situated halfway between their houses, and Adam glanced at his friend casually. "You still paying?"

Billy nodded absently and appeared lost in thought as they bought cocoa and skated a little way from the shop, sipping their drinks carefully. A tense silence fell over the two of them, though Adam let it wash over him, preoccupied with watching his cup.

After a few minutes, Billy sighed. "Look man, I'm not sure I quite get where you're coming from. But the bottom line is if you don't want to do it you shouldn't have to, right?"

"So… you're cool if I don't come along…?"

"I'm sure I'll live," Billy grinned into his drink. "George might die of disappointment though, the big girl."

Adam snorted into his chocolate, and watched some of it leak onto his sleeve with dismay.

They finished their drinks and threw them at the nearest trash can, Billy laughing at him when Adam's shot went wide. As they prepared to part Billy told him, "We're friends, okay? Don't sweat the small stuff."

"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

Waiting until he'd skated a good five metres away, Billy turned and remarked with a sly grin, "Don't sleep in tomorrow. We wouldn't want a repeat of last week now, would we?"

The snowball Adam threw fell well short as Billy skated out of range, laughing.

Left alone now, Adam pondered his options. He could go home to start on his own history assignment, or he could go to the library and pretend to work on it. Sadly, more hockey wasn't an option; normally he'd procrastinate happily until the night before, but he'd foolishly let slip about the assignment to his father, who was probably guarding his gear as closely as –excuse the pun– a hawk.

He'd just resigned himself to an evening spent indoors when the sight of an old man at a bus stop suddenly gave him an idea. If he went to the skate shop, Hans might let him borrow a pair of skates, maybe even a stick and puck to play with. At the very least, talking with the eccentric old man and breathing in the smell of hockey gear beat doing homework.

Grinning broadly, he started towards Hans' store.

Halfway there, a car horn had him spinning, startled; his heart sank at the sight of his brother's vehicle, and he groaned. Drat, foiled. His brother honked again when he didn't immediately move, and Adam slowly skated over, reluctance and resentment practically radiating as he opened the front door and sullenly climbed in.

Smiling wickedly, his brother pointed in the direction Adam had come from. "Home's that way, you know."

"Shut up, Jon," Adam grumbled, slouching back into his seat. Just to be annoying, he turned the heater up a few degrees; his brother was the type to gripe about the extra fuel money he had to pay for heating. "What are you doing here?"

"Dad had a hunch you'd try to pull a runner. Something about a history assignment?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "Geez, it's not like I'm _failing_."

"No, you just run around like a headless chook every time you've something due the next day," was the cheerful reminder. "Don't say I didn't warn you. How'd the game go?"

"Alright."

"Just alright? How many goals did you get?"

"Seven." Realising he was being a little too quiet, Adam offered a slight smile. "But they were a really crappy team, so it doesn't really count."

"Hm." The car stalled at a red light, and Jon turned to face him. "What's wrong then? You obviously didn't lose."

"I just…" Adam made a few frustrated, unintelligible movements with his hands, "did some stupid things. After the game."

It wasn't a comprehensive report –looking back only made him feel more embarrassed about how immature he'd acted– but Jon nodded understandingly. He turned his eyes back to the road when the light turned green, though a hand movement encouraged Adam to continue.

"My friends don't seem to realise that what we did was stupid and… well, _wrong_, I guess. It's like–"

"Like they think that because they have money they're above everyone else?"

Adam nodded, surprised at how quickly his brother had grasped his thoughts. Jon shrugged.

"I have to deal with it all the time at Eden Hall. Guys there think because their parents are loaded they're like fu– like royalty or something. I try to show them that isn't the case. Who knows if I'm succeeding or not."

The thought of trying to make George see things from his perspective made Adam feel a little queasy, as much from the hopelessness of trying to drill through his friend's skull as the scorn (and possible bruises) he'd probably get from the venture.

Glancing over, Jon ruffled his hair. "I'm not saying _you_ have to do that, squirt. Everyone's got their own way of doing things. At least you know your right from wrong, that's more than most people can boast of."

"I… said I'm not going to go along with it anymore," Adam ventured. "Is that really enough?"

Jon smirked. "When you're older, remind me to explain a little something called 'passive-aggression', okay?"

Adam thought about that for a moment. "You can't tell me _now_?"

"Unfortunately," the car stopped, and Adam abruptly realised that they were home, "_you_ have a history assignment due. But hey, maybe you can get it done early and I'll explain it over a game of hockey outside."

Recognising a ploy for him to do homework, Adam groaned and let himself out. Trudging into his house, he couldn't help but wonder if his conscience would really suffer so badly if he paid someone to do the assignment for him.

Probably not, he decided as he settled for a night of staring at the ice outside longingly.

**********

Anonymous89: Thanks for reviewing. I really like the way you've described Charlie in your view, it's a lot more eloquent than my own attempts, lol. Jesse became one of my favourites only recently, but I love how complex a character he is and (in my opinion) how much he affects the team dynamic. The Chadam element will be slow… I just hope not too slow! ^^;

Jnwrx1: Thank you! I almost think I'm setting myself up for failure, trying to write such a long fic, but we'll see what happens. To me, the chips/fries thing would've been okay... if I hadn't used 'chips' in the dialogue. My reasoning for having Charlie and Casey from being from a different state is because of the fuss Casey made about the car on the ice, which suggested to me that she wasn't a 'native', so to speak. The reason I chose California is because it's the only US state I've been to… and for other reasons that may become apparent. ^_~ I thought it would be fun for them to meet, though since nobody really remembers it doesn't really affect the plot or anything. It's funny you should mention the novels, since I'd just read them the night before I got your review, lol. I find them quite appallingly written, so I doubt I'll draw much from them, but there were a few bits I liked.

Fanficfanatic: Thanks for your review! :D


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